


For The Love Of The Game

by rightsidethru



Series: Secret Santa/Holiday Exchanges 2017 [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Sports, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Barista Stiles Stilinski, Baseball Player Peter Hale, De-Aged Derek Hale, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski are the Same Age, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Steter - Freeform, Steter Secret Santa, Steter Secret Santa 2017, Stiles Stilinski is Sixteen Years Old, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, all professional sports leagues have two branches: HMN (human) and SPNL (supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 15:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13169913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: Stiles has a favorite baseball team that he enjoys watching play.Or, more specifically, he has a favoriteplayer:Peter Hale.





	For The Love Of The Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cocoslash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoslash/gifts).



> Steter Secret Santa 2017 giftfic for [Coco](http://mieczyslawstilesstilinski.tumblr.com/)! :) When asked for things to include in this fic, I was given this as a response: 
> 
> "How about something to do with baseball and Mets? Maybe them bonding over the love for the team? Or maybe Peter being retired because of the injury player that Stiles loooooooooved as a kid?" 
> 
> I've never written a story that leans more heavily towards sports since my strength is definitely more fantasy or sci-fi themes, so hopefully I've written something that you can enjoy, Coco! :D;;
> 
> _Disclaimer:_ All baseball knowledge comes when I played both it and softball when I was younger. Many moons have passed since then. :P
> 
> Regardless: Happy holidays! :)
> 
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are loved and appreciated! <3
> 
> *
> 
> rightsidethru.tumblr.com

**_For The Love Of The Game_ **

*

_”If it doesn’t matter who wins or loses, then why do they keep score?”_  
\- Vince Lombardi

+

For as long as Stiles could remember, the sports that his family followed shifted with the changing of the seasons. Each member of the Stilinski family had a favorite sport that the others in the household had to suck it up and watch when games were played and shown on television: Claudia with her poorly-hidden love of hockey, avidly following both the HMN and SPNL leagues, and Noah would not be budged from his favorite armchair when the leaves began to change and the nation’s attention shifted to football. With beer in hand and bowl of pretzels on the coffee table before him, Beacon Hills’ Sheriff happily spent many a Monday night football programs yelling angrily at the television screen for specific referee calls or cheering on team members as they made a mad dash towards the endzone.

Stiles took after both his mother and his father in the way that he tended to favor one particular sport above all others, but he deviated from the Stilinski norm in the fact that it wasn’t so much a favorite _sport_ that he followed religiously—but a specific _team_ that managed to hold his attention.

While the boy followed both the HMN and SPNL versions of the Mets with a careful eye to detail, if Stiles had to pick which one he preferred to watch, it would definitely have to be the SPNL-MLB. Both league branch teams managed to demonstrate talent and athleticism that was genuinely awe-inspiring, but there was something about the SPNL games that had Stiles inching towards the television screen to drink in as much of the action as possible. The baseball diamond was always so much bigger than the humans’ version: supernaturals were able to hit harder, run faster, and play longer than their human counterparts, and the fields for all of the sports had to reflect those heightened abilities.

For Stiles, the difference between the two branches of the league were as different as night and day—and, as typical with him, it was the _night_ that the amber-eyed boy was drawn to.

And then, of course, there was the fact that _Peter Hale_ played on the SPNL-Mets team.

+

Stiles was six when rumors started whispering through Beacon Hills that Peter, his best friend Derek’s uncle, was being counted by a Major League Baseball team. Peter Hale had been incredibly popular when he attended BHHS, and his prowess on both the basketball and baseball teams had turned heads; the second son of the then-Alpha had gone to Stanford on scholarships for both sports and now, graduating a year earlier than expected, was apparently being courted by an actual _big-name team_. Stiles, clumsy in a coltish sort of way, was fascinated by the fact that someone he knew—even in a distant sort of way—would soon enough become a Famous Person, making a living off of his athletic skills. It would only ever be something of a pipedream for Stiles himself considering his own lack of coordination, but—with interest piqued—there was nothing that could stop him from rattling off an increasingly large amount of questions Derek’s way as the months rolled by.

On Derek’s end of things, the older boy was confused and struggled to answer his friend’s rapidfire inquires—not understanding why Stiles, out of everyone that _he_ knew, was so curious about his uncle and what Peter planned on doing after college. Still, the young ‘wolf did his best to answer Stiles’ various questions, offering up opinions and facts that he heard during late conversations between his mom and dad and grandma—though didn’t bring up the shouting matches accidentally overheard when Peter actually called home and the tension that had skyrocketed amongst the adults because of this potential contract.

That was a Pack-related problem and, though Stiles was close to Derek and most of the rest of the family… he wasn’t _Pack_ enough to know. Besides, that was also mostly adult concerns—so it wasn’t as if Derek’s opinion on the whole issue mattered to the others, anyway.

(Stiles, though, had a talent at listening to what wasn’t said—knew more than he typically let on.)

In the end, though, a decision was made:

As the spring term of Peter’s senior year came to a close, the older Hale eventually made his choice of deciding to play for the SPNL-Mets; and, well, Stiles finally found a sport that he wanted to follow as closely as his dad did football and his mom did hockey. And if he paid closer attention to when the Mets had their games… his parents never really noticed the way his amber gaze avidly tracked one player in particular.

+

Beacon Hills was small enough that it only warranted one small coffee shop—overlooked to the point that even Starbucks decided that it wasn’t worth putting down roots to sell their overly-burnt coffee to the county’s residents. Stiles had no particular problem with that, though: the café that he was both regular and part-time employee at was both intimately cozy and expansive in their drink selections—responsibly harvested beans from all of the world were a regular feature at the shop, rotated through on a sometimes bi-weekly basis. Though the sixteen year-old boy did have his preferences over drink type and country of origin, as long as he was kept caffeinated, he typically had no problem playing bean tester to Mr. and Mrs. Lynsley when a new shipment came in.

The other upside, as well, that came with working at such a small coffee shop was that it didn’t take long to recognize regulars and to learn to call out their drinks of choice the moment they walked through the door and nodded a go-ahead. On the opposite hand, however, this also meant that _non_ -regulars were easy enough to spot. When that someone ended up being rather recognizable regardless, though, it seemed like a moot enough point to make—

In all honesty, the amber-eyed teen never expected to see Peter Hale step through the front doors of _Bean Me Up, Biscotti_. It was an open secret around town that the baseball player hadn’t returned home since accepting the SPNL-MLB’s contract: whether it was because of the old Alpha’s disagreement with Peter going into pro-baseball instead of following in a more traditional Pack career or because the Beta was finally using it as an opportunity to spread his wings without going completely Omega… theories and rumors were passed around from one resident to the next; no one ever really found out the _real_ reason why, though, and Peter never came back.

Until now.

The whiskey-eyed teen nervously fidgeted with the roll of receipt tape as the ‘wolf approached the counter, flickering his honeyed eyes upwards to catch Peter’s cool gaze when the older man finally stood before him. “…one venti black coffee, a shot of hazelnut and espresso, no cream and sugar. Right?”

Peter blinked at that, momentarily taken aback, and his brow furrowed in bewilderment before shifting gears to stare the unassuming teen down. “Yes, that’s correct. And how, _exactly_ , did you know that?”

Stiles shrugged an absent shoulder, gesture Gallic and fluid. “I like watching the Mets play—you once mentioned how you like your coffee in an interview, and I have a good memory.”

Neither complete lie nor complete truth: Stiles’ heartbeat remained steady.

(He’d figured out how to lie on a regular basis around Derek and Scott by the time that the trio were eight years old. This? Was a skill that the now-teen had _long_ ago mastered to perfection.)

The furrow just above Peter’s brow deepened momentary, there and gone again, and his Arctic-bright gaze caught sight of the teen’s nametag. Head cocking to the side in a gesture that was more canine than human, Peter’s gaze hooded for just a moment before allowing a slow, pleased smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. “…Stiles. I don’t suppose that you would happen to be the same _Stiles_ that’s my dear nephew’s best friend?”

“One and the very same, actually,” the teen answered, reply glib even as he finished ringing the older man up. As Peter reached for his wallet to pull out his card to pay for the drink, Stiles waved him away before Peter could get very far in the retrieval. “Don’t worry about it. Today’s drink is on the house—just think of it as a _Welcome back to Beacon Hills._ mid-afternoon pick-me-up.”

Stiles’ accompanying smile was wide and toothy as he finally lifted his chin to meet Peter’s gaze head-on, whiskey eyes surprisingly sharp and predatory in his too pale face; he _saw_ some emotion shift in the older man’s gaze at that, Peter’s eyes flaring neon bright for just a millisecond of time as something inhuman rippled just beneath the bones of his face: something eldritch and Other, hidden and tucked away from sight—the wolf soul rising up from the dark, coming to the surface before slipping away.

“How thoughtful of you,” Peter murmured. “You’ll have to allow me to repay the favor one of these days.”

The teen’s smile turned fox-like, sly, in turn.

“Sounds like a _date_.”

+

**SPNL-METS STAR PITCHER TO RETIRE!**

_Peter Hale, reigning SPNL-Mets pitcher for the past decade, has made the announcement that he’ll be retiring at the end of this season. While the thirty-one year old baseball player has yet to give a comment regarding the situation himself, his management has provided the media with the following statement: “Peter Hale sustained an injury in the beginning of the season during one of the SPNL-Mets’ practices. While the injury did not bar him from participating in following games, it was severe enough to open up a discussion between Mr. Hale and his coaches as to whether or not it was time to retire. During those meetings, Mr. Hale decided that it was best to finish up this season as his last and turn his attention towards the various degrees he accrued during his off-seasons. Mr. Hale thanks his fans for the heartfelt support they have given him through the years, and he hopes that they will continue to support him as he wraps up this season—hopefully ending it with a World Series title for his team.”_

_On our end of things, let us wish Peter Hale a most heartfelt thanks for the years of entertainment and truly inspiring displays of athleticism that he provided to us and offer him a supportive ‘good luck’ in the new endeavors he intends to move towards._

+

Stiles chewed absently on the end of a pen as he glanced over his AP Composition homework, idly editing the essay he’d been assigned the week before—switching over to Scott’s own (rather mangled) essay or Derek’s (overly researched) History assignment every couple of paragraphs in an effort to keep himself from getting bored with the work. From around the corner of the school’s building, the amber-eyed teen could hear the lacrosse team’s grunts as players collided with one another, each trying to steal the ball from the current possessor before a goal shot could be made. The SPNL team was rougher than the HMN one, hits landing harder and lacrosse sticks dealing out more damage than if it was just normal human strength behind each strike.

Scott’s snarl was recognizable even from here, and Stiles rolled his eyes to himself when he heard Jackson’s taunting commentary follow soon after. There wasn’t any point in sticking his head around the corner to heckle the blonde ‘wolf, though, as the sixteen year-old would have normally done in regular circumstances—if only because the pattern had established itself months ago, and in three—two—one—

_”Dammit, Yukimura! Foul, Coach! **Foul!** ”_

\--Scott’s current girlfriend would steal the ball from a gloating Jackson and somehow toss it past Boyd’s encompassing bulk. It wouldn’t be long before Jackson would start claiming that Kira had tapped into her kitsune luck to make the pass, and then the game would pause for a minute or two so that the coaches could assess the field for any foreign power surges (there wouldn’t be any, but Stiles had resigned himself to Jackson being a grade-A asshole all the way back in kindergarten—there was no chance in hell that things would have changed years later).

“Well, isn’t this an unexpected surprise,” a voice drolled from overhead; despite the fact that Stiles had heard it in person just once before, the teen’d been watching Peter Hale’s interviews for _years_ beforehand: the older man’s voice was familiar to Stiles, and the boy just slowly lifted his head to glance the older man’s way in turn.

“I don’t see why it is,” Stiles quipped in return, snapping Scott’s English text shut with a decisive flex of his fingers—setting it aside immediately after so that the teen could lean back onto the palms of his hands, offering Peter his full and undivided attention. “If you knew that I was Derek’s friend, you’d have known that Derek was also on the lacrosse and basketball teams. Pretty easy to assume that I’d be at one or the other’s practices since your nephew still can’t pass his driving test even if his life depended on it.”

(Which made Stiles the designated chauffeur of the group—not necessarily a bad thing when everyone provided him with gas money on a weekly basis.)

“True enough,” Peter agreed, inclining his head at the younger’s point while interest piqued in his gaze at how easily Stiles had deconstructed the ‘wolf’s offhand comment: there was an intelligence there, within the boy’s mind, predatorily sharp and quicksilver fast—instinct, primeval and embedded within the marrow of Peter’s bones, promised that this boy would offer the challenge that his games had been lacking, something to puzzle over and potentially never solve considering the fact that Stiles seemed to be a child of fire and air: forever evolving and changing on a whim.

Dismissing that particular thought’s thread—for now—the ‘wolf continued: “I’m surprised, though, that you’re not playing with the rest of them.”

That same Gallic shrug returned, lifting the slim curve of Stiles’ shoulders beneath his favorite Batman shirt. “There weren’t enough human players interested to justify forming a HMN team,” the teen said, “and I’ve never been fond of the thought of being the honorary bench warmer if the SPNL team ended up having to take me instead.”

Peter once again tilted his head to the side at that, gesture still as dog-like and _different_ as before. “Well,” the elder of the two eventually began as the moment of silence stretched on between the both of them, malleable as saltwater taffy, “since the lacrosse team will be busy with practice for at least another hour or so, why don’t you join me for a cup of coffee at your shop down the street?”

“Repaying the favor?” Stiles asked and propped his chin in the palm of his hand, amber gaze contemplative and still somehow _knowing_ as he glanced sidelong at the baseball player—soon-to-be- _ex_ baseball player if the sports columns were to be believed.

“Something like that.”

The ‘wolf’s teeth gleamed from just behind the curve of his lips.

+

Less than ten minutes later, Stiles and Peter were both settled comfortably in the pair of armchairs set off in the corner of _Bean Me Up, Biscotti_. Peter was once more sipping at his hazelnut infused drink while the sixteen year-old nursed an excessively sugary (and complicated) monstrosity that the Lynsleys let Stiles behind the counter to make despite the fact that the boy currently wasn’t on the clock. The pleased little sounds that Stiles made with every sip was enough to make Peter’s gaze go heavy-lidded and dark, interest no longer as hidden as before—no matter how thinly disguised it had been previously.

“Derek mentioned the other day that baseball is the only sport that you watch on television.”

Stiles hummed in agreement, not seeing any point in trying to deny that particular bit of information if his best friend had already openly offered it up to his nephew, unaware of any ulterior motives Peter may have had in his questioning. “That’s true, yeah,” the teen replied before lifting his lashes to meet Peter’s glacial gaze, taking another long draw from his coffee mug. Stiles debated with himself about any further replies, mulling over potential addendums that would shift the game that was slowly developing between himself and the older man: changing the playing field, so to speak. Eventually, the temptation to dangle a particular confirmation that Peter obviously was after was too strong, and the teen lightly commented: “If the sports websites are being accurate in their reports, then I’m going to have to find a new baseball team to throw my support behind.”

“And why would that be? The Mets are a good team, after all, Stiles,” Peter chided in turn, though the teen could see the briefest flicker of neon blue that flared to life as the older man spoke.

Hiding a fox-like smile behind the lip of his too-large mug, the teen replied: “Unfortunately, they’ve recently lost their luster for me.”

Stiles knew that he was playing with fire—for a variety of different reasons—but his impulse control had never been the greatest when there was something that the teen desperately wanted and was just barely out of his reach: he’d always been fascinated by the predatory curve of Peter’s smile, even when he was younger, and that fascination with the older man had just managed to grow exponentially over the years. Having that object of his interest sitting across from him, indulging in the game and making his own moves—interest there for Stiles to see though carefully banked enough so that others couldn’t pick up on it…? It was a dangerous game, true enough, but the threat of being burned had never stopped him before:

“Maybe something new will come along to strike my interest in the meantime.”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Peter murmured, watching the tendons flex along the curve of Stiles’ throat as the teen swallowed his coffee.

+

The solid _thunk_ of the baseball hitting its designated target echoed loudly in the deserted expanse of the batting cages. Peter’s throw would have been called a strike—nearly every throw of his was, something that he’d always prided himself on—but the ache in his shoulder still lingered; despite staying in Beacon Hills for the past month—and despite the fact that his Pack had opened its arms to him once more, no matter that the gesture bordered on begrudging—his injury remained.

As far as Peter could tell, not much healing had happened from the day of his return up ‘till now. If things continued as they were, it was unlikely that the ‘wolf would be able to play out the last season that his management had promised the masses—not and avoid permanent injury to himself.

Peter grimaced at that particular thought, disliking how it loomed—ugly and foreboding—on his future’s horizon.

“So it appears that the sports blogs _were_ telling the truth, then,” Stiles commented from the doorway of Peter’s pitching lane, and the ‘wolf tossed a glance over his non-injured shoulder, eyebrows raised mockingly high in the teen’s direction. “What?” the amber-eyed boy continued, lifting an eyebrow of his own in answer. “I _did_ tell you that I play chauffeur for my friends. I had to drop Scott off at the vet down the street. It’s not worth the gas to drive all the way back home, so I typically spend his shifts here.”

Catching sight of the mitt that covered one of the boy’s hands, Peter abruptly smirked and tossed a baseball Stiles’ way. “Prove it, then,” the ‘wolf taunted, perhaps sharper than he had originally intended—pain bloodying his personality’s already jagged edges, leaving them open and raw.

A muscle ticked along the edge of the teen’s jawline—challenge and irritation both flaring in equal amounts within the teen’s honeyed gaze—and Stiles shifted his stance just enough to catch the ball that Peter had purposefully thrown just the smallest bit off-center, spinning it in the air so that it curved unexpectedly. _Asshole_ , Stiles thought but didn’t voice, recognizing from his time in the hospital because of his mom’s illness that the older man’s foul mood was because he was in pain—didn’t necessarily excuse Peter’s behavior, but at least the boy knew that there was a reason for it.

He stepped into the pitching lane, absently moving the baseball within his grip until his fingers brushed along the ball’s threads—grip comfortable and familiar, something done many times before: Stiles came here to relax and while away the hours while Scott was working, indulging in mindless, repetitive motion until both the throws and the swings with the bats became instinctive and immediate.

The moment that Peter exited the cage, Stiles settled back into the familiar stance and then [threw the baseball](https://i.imgur.com/4ps6w7W.gifv).

There was nothing as satisfying as watching the numbers on the pitching machine display a solidly fast throw, as well as turn up green as a signal for the fact that the throw had been within the strike zone. Turning his attention away from the readout, Stiles just quirked an eyebrow at Peter’s unreadable expression before gesturing for the baseball player to turn around to give the teen his back.

“Better remember that the next time you want to take your bad mood out on someone,” Stiles said, comment pointed; before Peter had the chance to reply, however, the teen traced fingertips over the ‘wolf’s inflamed shoulder, and Peter snarled audibly as he fell to his knees, pain sparking along too-sensitive nerves as everything _burned_.

And yet—

When the pain quickly began to subside, fading away into a dull throb with each and every beat of his heart, Peter realized that his shoulder felt… better. Not as full of pins and needles, no more prodding with a scalpel’s paperthin edge when he made one too many pitches: with a single touch, Stiles had managed to make progress into undoing the damage that his faded Pack bonds had been unable to heal.

The ‘wolf glanced upwards, meeting the teen’s uncompromising gaze, and watched as Stiles idly tossed a baseball in one hand. “…how did you do that?” Peter eventually asked.

“I don’t think that you’ve earned that answer yet.”

Peter’s eyes _flared_ glacial blue, and Stiles smirked in turn—silky and dangerous.

(And the board between them yet again changed, pieces shifting position with every move made.)

+

Stiles propped his chin on his forearm, scooting closer inch by inch to his laptop to watch the livestream of the SPNL-Mets’ last game of the regular season. Peter was in excellent form tonight, breaking previous records with each and every strike that he threw. Seeing the older man nail every pitch brought a sulky-sweet quirk to Stiles’ mouth as the whiskey-eyed teen smirked, pleased at being able to watch the end results of his healing:

It didn’t take long before the ending of the game was a foregone conclusion, the Mets drawing ahead with each and every hit they managed to make when it was their turn up to bat and the lack of players on bases when it was the Yankees’ turn with the bat.

By the time that the fifth inning was drawing to a close, Stiles sent a series of texts to the phone number that he’d managed to swipe from Derek’s phone, watching in amusement as Peter frowned down at his phone while seated in the dugout—there was a smug sort of satisfaction in seeing how the ‘wolf’s eyes went wide in surprise ( _Checkmate._ ), phone dropping from fingers even as Peter glanced up to search for the nearest video camera aimed his team’s way.

*

_Early congrats on managing to take the Mets to another World Series!!_  
(ง •̀_•́)ง  
_Fyi --_  
_Hit me up for another mid-afternoon pick-me-up the next time you’re back in town._  
_(Hopefully with another title to lay claim to ‘cause otherwise this one you’re paying for.)_  
_-S., Emissary-in-Training_

::fin::


End file.
